


Broken Hands, Unbroken Soul

by MsLanna



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Body Horror, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mandalorian, Past Violence, but it gets better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 10:23:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8529388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsLanna/pseuds/MsLanna
Summary: Short story and drabble dump for Dahlia Vyren an OC I once created fro my Mandalorian kit. She started out as far from Mandalorian culture as you can get, as a musician. Then things go downhill. Time frame is before TPM to RotS. Major events merely mentioned. Dahlia has better sense in stlye though, so her kit is not black on gold with a green snake plastered over it any longer.I put her through a lot of abuse some of it graphic, loads of it implied. Let me know if there need to be more tags to warn people.This is, once again, not chroconoligcal. It is marked finished because I do not know when I will write more for it.





	1. Day One

Her hands hurt, hurt horribly and still by far less than her soul.

_Palan'nadari_

The word echoed through her head with the same nasty leer and disgusted undertone that they had used.

_Palan'nadari._

Best, first, soloist _nadari_ , star of the orchestra, master of the _nadar_ flute without equal. Tears burned behind her closed eyes, unable to even consider balling her hands into fists. It took a lot of ingenuity and determination to break a _nadar_ inside a person, but they had managed. Afterwards, of course afterwards. But even that didn't hurt remotely as bad has her hands. And the splinters of her soul.

She would never play the Saragossi Scales again, the Venennian Etudes and even those Kantati, that had always seemed scoffing easy – all beyond her scope now. The notes hung in her mind, still clear as morning dew, sinking through the early breezy like diamonds. It was more painful to know she would never again be able to play them than to feel the splinters of bone poking though bits of flesh and sinew that had once been her hands.

The human hand had twenty-seven bones. They had broken each. At least once. It took quite a long time to faint from pain, she surmised. And you woke up way too soon. Waking up and looking up into the strange faces of strange men. Pain lasted only so long. And her _nadar_ was broken.

Sad faces, medics, the first thing she saw after the breaking sound of her _nadar_ tilted her backwards into blackness. So sad. For all the wrong reasons. What should she care if she could not have children anymore? What was she going to play to them at the end of the day anyway? The remains of her fingers were "saved", would be usable again.

One day.  
What did she care?

There was the ghost of the Elenaïd whispering in her head, the fast melody bubbling and bouncing at a pace unattainable. She could feel small jolts of pain racing through her former hands as muscles no longer in one piece tried to follow the lure of the music.

Then they had stunned her hands, set them in frames of metal and deadened their connection to her brain. Because in her head the music still played; in her mind the _nadar_ never stopped.

_Palan'nadari_

No more.


	2. A Man in the Park

There was a man in the park. He had a flute.

Dahlia watched him from her window almost everyday. When he was there, he sat on the far side of the park, playing his flute. It didn't seem to matter to him at all whether the people listened or not. He had a hat turned upside down but not much money ended up in it.

She hated the frames that held her hands. They were huge; they prevented her from doing anything. She could do nothing: not dress, not eat, not use the fresher. They had started out as a major embarrassments and were still highly annoying now.

She could not move her fingers. They were still clamped in the metal monstrosities, the nerves numbed. 'Only two more weeks', the medics said. Then she could start using them again – slowly, very slowly. Otherwise the new bones would break, the sinews snap, barely healed muscles fray.

She watched the man playing his flute. For a while Zinoscha's Adagio was silent in her head, drowned out by the new melody she could not grasp. She watched his fingers play the same songs over and over again and could not grasp them with her hands cast into rigour. Scattered and broken the ideas of the melodies haunted her.

On the first day she was allowed outside, she went directly towards him. The frames around her hands were smaller, but still her hands were unfeeling, numb lumps at the end of her arms.

The music reached her before she reached him. Sad, determined, old beyond generations in the way of traditional folk songs. Her fingers ached to settle over the holes on her _nadar_ , a pain she felt like a red hot phantom in the black nothingness of her hands.

Those hands were also the reason she didn't sit down to listen. They were ungainly, in the way, an obstacle. When she stood, the useless chunks hung by her sides, almost as if they were simply hands. At least they were out of sight.

The piece ended on a mournful note she felt more than heard and the man looked up. His face was older than she had thought, lines with age, hardship, grief, but in his eyes a spark glimmered, ready to burst into fire. He glanced at her hands. "Well, well. What have you been doing?"

She followed his gaze to the deadwood she carried around at her wrists. " _Palan'nadari_ ," she finally replied. " _Palan'nadari_ ," she repeated slowly, almost as if to herself.

"And what is it, a palannadari does that gets her hands broken that badly?"

She did not really listen to him, her eyes fixed on the instrument in his hands. It was simple, no comparison to the sleek beauty of a _nadar_. Almost crude simple holes went down the metal pipe. How could one not miss the complicated arrangement of the double holes for each finger the _nadar_ offered? Her fingers didn't twitch as her mind trilled through the impossible scales or Burnarak, written solely to challenge the players control of the double holes.

"It is a flute," she said then.

"Yes." He lifted it a little to show her.

Automatically she raised her hands to take it, but only two lumps of meat rose. She looked at them, knowing they looked bloated, red, raw and swollen under the metal and bandages. "A flute." She repeated slowly, dropping her useless limbs again. The fire they could not feel burnt down her cheeks instead. The last mournful notes resonated in her head, unable to escape from her mind. "Can you play that again?"

"The last song?"

"The mournful one."

He looked at her hands for a while as if thinking. Then up to a face that was blank but for sad reminiscence. "Sure."

She sat down as he played the song again that felt so sad despite its energy. In her mind her fingers danced over the _nadar_ , following, complementing the simple melody.


	3. Drabble Dump 1

**1) “Some days I think I'm dying, but I'm really only trying to get through.”**

It was not making any sense. Dahlia looked at her hands, at what would have to pass for her hands from now on. They kept swelling when she moved them. Bits of bone not all grown back together, she was told. It would pass. It would be alright. Her fingers would mend.

Lies.

Did they think she didn't know? Nothing would be alright. Those hands were not the hands she needed, those she wanted, she once had. Those fingers could not hold anything. Those fingers could not move to the dancing double scales of the _nadar_.

Just give it time.

They kept saying that, like mantra. Give it time. Give it time. Watch the small improvements, celebrate the small successes. How could she be so sure when her hands had not even healed properly?

Dahlia leant back tying to hope.  
If she gave up now, she would truly never find out. And her fingers would never know the touch of a _nadar_ again.

 

* * *

  

**2) “Why stay?”**

She sat curled up in a corner of the bunk, the bulkhead cold against her back. Only the thin blanket draped over her prevented her from freezing all over. She had wrapped the fabric around her hands before curling those around her legs to prevent them from touching her skin.

They would land again soon. He had said so. Mandalore again, even. Dahlia put her head on her knees. She was free to go. He had said so. And whatever else he was, he did not lie to her. She was free to go.

"You've been here before, _utree'ka_. How long do I have to lug you around?"

Dahlia didn't know. She remembered Mandalore. It was a planet like planets were planets. The spaceport was small. The city looked windswept. There were no towering skyscrapers, no sweeping cityscape to humble the eyes.

There were people, too. Hard people with fast steps and certain eyes. People in armour, people sharing the same face in all colours of the rainbow. Nari Ta'em was there. Maybe. Somewhere. With his _bes'bev_ and words from long ago.

"You have a name, go find him!"

She curled up tighter. This was maybe not a good place. But it was her place. She knew it. She could do things. Her hands were enough for this. She was enough for this. And out there – Dahlia bit her lip. She did not know what was out there. She did not want to know. She was a coward. _Hut'uun_ in that strange, choppy language.

Hiram returned from the fresher wearing nothing but the last droplets of water. "You still here?" He shook his head. "Oh well, could be worse." He lifted her head.

It could, she agreed silently, getting to work. Many times she did not even need her hands. So why leave?

 

* * *

  

**3) “So, we'll try again and eventually we'll get it right.”**

He used to say that a lot. Dahlia was not sure how serious he was about it. He said many things and did only a few. And she was a hopeless case, so why even bother? How did it even work? It was a flute, a musical instrument. How could it be a weapon as well?

"Make their eyes water," he said. "You certainly are hard on the ears already."

That's how it had started. He couldn't stand her practising so much. Any longer stretch of time and he'd be there complaining. She had tried to play when he was gone but how could he be gone in transit?

"Stop that!" He held out his hand in demand.

But Dahlia held on to the flute. Mine. In her shattered new life this was her one certainty; the one thing that truly owned her. "No." She shook her head, cradling the instrument to her chest.

He looked at her long and hard. But then he shrugged. "Might as well show you how to use it correctly."

She didn't understand.

With a fluent motion he plucked the bes'bev from her hands and disregarding her wail, pulled it apart. Then he pointed it at her. "It's a weapon, by the stars. Use it like one!"

That was how it had started. Dahlia was still not very good with the bes'bev when she did not hold it to her lips. It was meant to be played. But like him, like all things Mandalorian, it was more than one. It was music and death, instrument of beauty and violence. It was everything and then some.

Dahlia held the bes'bev close, the cold metal reassuring against the skin of her palms. Maybe, just maybe – but no. Even with this ferocious flute, its deadly edge would not have saved her. There was only a faint hope that it would protect her in the future. But to that thread, she'd cling.

She'd try and then try again until she got it right.

 

* * *

  

**4) “I miss the pain.”**

She sat curled up in a corner. He didn't notice anymore, but she did. He did not notice many things because he had his own things to consider. It had always been like that. Come to think, there were only three areas where he showed any interest in what she did; kit, kitchen and bed. Dahlia was sure she had the hang of all three by now.

But she missed the pain.

Those three things had given her something to do, something to learn and concentrate on. She had never before in her life held a ladle. She knew nothing about prefix meals and deepfreeze containers. Spices, condiments. She had stood on markets, her eyes wide and her nose besieged. He did not mind her curiosity. And Dahlia knew how to make food he would eat.

Kit was easier. The metal skin of him was a fixed set of variables and after some time she understood them all. They were a deadly puzzle. She liked to keep it in perfect condition. Like the nadar was an instrument and its melody was death.

It was bed that gave her the most problems. She didn't know what he wanted. As an instrument, he was a very unreliable one. The same treatment might get very different reactions. Dahlia felt she was still working out all of the clues. And that wasn't enough. It was not enough that she played him well. That realisation had come to her slowly as it didn't make any sense. But she had to play herself as well.

When he touched her breasts, she was to react. When he touched her between the legs, she was to react. Whenever he touched her, she was to react. Each and every time. It was difficult because she had no precedent, no frame of reference. But she learnt, albeit slowly, by his reactions to her reactions. She would figure out the details in the end.

The only touch tat she reacted to without thought was her hands. Those monstrous, clumsy, abominable lumps worth something only when they held a flute. She treasured the touch of its cold metal against her skin. She poisoned everything else she touched. When she laid her palms on the world, it trembled. And so did she because there was still, somewhere, a desire to touch things, touch something beside the comforting cold of the bes'bev. But she could not. Her hands were impossible. Her desire alone soiled anything they got into contact with.

He did not notice. She could trail black execration over his skin and he didn't mind. She spread her filth over his face, down his body and over the throbbing protrusion he would later push into her. He did not even notice how corrupt her hands made him.

Dahlia stared down at the useless limbs hidden under black gloves. She protected the world from herself. She protected herself. Cooped up and severed.

She missed the pain.

It had been a long time since she had last felt it, the insurgency of her body against the state it was in. But no more. The healing was done. This was as good as it got.

 

* * *

  

**5) “Nothing's real.”**

Not the ground under her feet, not the sky above he head. The light of the sun is unreal and the green of the trees to bright to be true. Birds are singing in painful tunes and that cannot be real or it would break her. There was nothing real left in her life.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Her eyes closed and her fingers around the thin pipe. That was real. The cold metal against hot skin. The promise of pain that did not last. The simple tune that was all that remained of her repertoire.

Behind closed eyes she concentrated on holding on to that sliver of life. Cold. Simple. Piercing clear.

The high not of metal on stone made her eyes snap open. The bes'bev tinkled as it settled on the tiles. Her fingers were still curled, painfully contracted into a farce of gripping, now holding on to nothing but thin air and mockery.

Dahlia told herself not to cry.  
It was as successful as holding on to the flute.

 

* * *

  

**6) “This is fucked.”**

Dahlia curled up with her back against the wall. The action in itself gave her some safety, even if she was in a strange room in a strange house on a strange planet. Her arms were tight around her legs, the knees pulled against her chest and her cheek resting on them. It was quite possible that she was crying.

All those years. Lost years. Years not forgotten but maybe not counted in the overall reiteration of her life. She didn't even know how many. Dahlia had not asked.

"Ms Dahlia Vyren?" The accountant had asked as if the name made any difference.

She had nodded, the image of her parents hovering like smoke and mist. It did no good to deny herself. That far she had gotten.

"Would you like to add to your existing account or indeed open up a secondary one?"

It had taken some time for her to understand. It had taken some time for him to explain. The money was still there. The money had always been there. From the night her life had ended until now, the money had been waiting for her, lying low, doing what money did: multiplying.

Dahlia did not have to worry. The small amount she had hoped to save for another day way nothing, nothing at all with the credits at her disposal.

"Ten years," the clerk explained. "That is the time a bank has to wait for a missing person to show up."

And now she had shown up. She could take the money, all of it and run. But Dahlia didn't know where to. She pulled her ankles a little tighter. What was she going to do with all that money. She had been playing for years. And her parents had been saving it all. Her knees were wet and sticky. The wall was cool against he back and the mattress under her was soft and yielding by too many years of use.

What would she do now? What did she want to do? And why did she come up with nothing when she asked herself this?

 

* * *

  

**7) “It's not going to get better, is it?”**

"No."

The small word brought down the world on her. This was it. This was the end of the line. This was what her hands would be, now and forever.

"Are you sure?"

There was pity in the doctor's eyes. He wanted to help. He could see how important it was to Dahlia, but there was nothing he could do. "I am sorry." He pushed some scans over the desk towards her. The white on black images glared at her with undisguised vitriol.

Dahlia picked them up carefully, painfully aware of the things that should be hands. They did not fumble, though. They did not drop the thin sheets. It was improvement of sorts. It was all she can hope for.

"If you had come when it happened," he stopped for a moment, considering her face, "or maybe a year later. But now it is too late. I am really sorry. The bones have grown together again, stronger where they have been broken."

Dahlia felt like vomiting all over his pity. How was it her fault she hadn't know, she hadn't done anything then? She had barely known who she was. And when she had known again, she hadn’t wanted to. She had spent so much time in fear; fear to be found, fear that it wasn't over.

But if she had been full of courage back then, had she seen the expensive doctors instead of the public ones, then – oh the thought alone hurt. Her hands might still be hands. Her fingers might still dance over the double array of holes of the nadar. Now, though...

Dahlia looked at the black gloves hiding her hands from the world. Now it was too late. Now her hands were fixed in this broken way. Now her fingers would never know the exhilaration of the double dance again. Now, all she had was this.

"I am really sorry."

She wished the man would just go away, but of course this was his office. She took a deep breath. She looked at him. She smiled. "It is alright." Her voice had nothing to do with the world. "I guess, I'll just have to get new hands."

He looked surprised. He handed her the card for a lab building prosthetic limbs. "Think about it well," he said. "Your hands are your gateways to the world."

Nodding, Dahlia left. He might be right. But how was anything ever going to get through those twisted apertures? And if so, how would it stay whole?

 

* * *

 

**8) “Where'd you get that?”**

Dahlia trailed her hand down the scar on his side. He liked it when she asked questions like that. It made him feel important. It made him feel he mattered. Because, why would you ask if you did not care?

It was a long scar with jagged edges. It ran in a slight curve from just under his chest muscle, down across the ribs and back towards his belly. It covered him exactly where his kit offered no cover. In a way that made sense.

"I was in a fight with some Nikto," he began. His stories were always like that. He had fought several enemies, likely sturdy aliens in full armour. He was outnumbered and outgunned, but somehow he made it anyway. Each time he emerged as the hero in armour that was not shining any longer.

She listened with one ear, taking mental notes so she could repeat the details in case of need. Mostly she was thinking about the remainder of the night, though. She could have it several ways and wondered if there was any she preferred. There was not.

He described the weapon that did this to him in detail. Dahlia smiled against his skin. "You kept it."

 _What do you want?_ Dahlia asked herself again. It was the most difficult question she knew.

If he was in a good mood, he sometimes brought back little things, trinkets. Tiny baubles of no worth but pretty. Dahlia liked them. He had once brought a pretty box to keep them all in. They tinkled when she ran her hands through them, shiny on first glance but ultimately worthless, just like her.

If there were women, she could gain more time to play the bes'bev by frustrating him tonight. If there were no women, she'd just get a grumpy mercenary on the backlash of ebbing adrenaline. He was easy to deal with but she would have won nothing. Dahlia moved her fingers along the prolonged trajectory of the scar. Life would be so much easier if she knew what she wanted apart from those things she couldn't have.

Maybe she needed a purpose. But where'd you get that?

 

* * *

 

**9) “How could I ever forget?”**

Nothing to be done.

Prosthetics.

End of line.

All the money in the world wouldn't help her. Dahlia put her head on her knees, the forehead resting uneasily on the rough cloth of her trousers. All the money in the galaxy couldn't help her. It didn't matter that she was rich. It couldn't help her get what she wanted. Things called hands clutched at her ankles. That was how it was.

So.

What else was there?

Dahlia closed her eyes and tried to think. What did she want? Apart from her hands back. She could probably have anything. Anything _else_ , that was. But what else was there?

Nothing.

She had absolutely nothing.

Even if she bought the most spectacular nadar ever, what would she do with it? What good would it do her? None. That's how it was. All she could handle was the bes'bev now. And she already had one. The cold metal touching her palms held no salvation. But it held.

Another question found its way into the forefront of her thoughts. Why? Why her? It was quickly followed by 'who?'. Who would do something like that to her? And what were they doing now?

Dahlia sat up, her eyes staring into the distance. Who _had_ done this to her? She had never really asked before. But really, who had? Who had done _this_ to her? She raised he hands looking at the tight gloves covering the extremities. Somebody was responsible for this. Somebody probably needed to die. Or worse.

It wasn't much, she had to admit. But it was something. Something to do. Something to pursue. Something to do with her life and money. Of course, she'd need help, but she was in the right place for that.

Dahlia curled up again, thinking the idea through. She could never forget. She would make sure _they_ wouldn't either.

 

* * *

 

**10) “So anyway I'm leaving.”**

Just like that. Dahlia had not seen it coming.

"Oh come on," he said. "You wanted to leave years ago, first arrival on Mandalore to be exact."

It was the truth. She had wanted to do just that. She hadn't. It didn't feel safe. There were people. There were always people. People were dangerous. People killed people – and worse.

And she had no name. Just the face of an old man that had gone blurry over time. Every Mandalorian ever knew the song. Most didn't care.

That was something, though. People who didn't care usually stayed clear. Still, if it had been up to her – Dahlia sighed. It was not. And this was no time to be a coward. She looked at him.

"Look, nothing against you, but I need a change."

He did not say 'you're a freak'. Not this time because it was nothing personal and he just wanted her gone. It was a pity. Dahlia was sure she had just really figured him all out, kit, kitchen _and_ bed.

"What will I do?"

"What you have done. Just," he waved his hand vaguely, "with somebody else."

It sounded easy enough. Dahlia knew she was good at what she did. And it wasn't as if she could force him to let her stay. Or could she? Probably not. She clutched her flute, a small satchel slung over a shoulder and watched the ship take off.

At least she was on Mandalore. Finally. She felt, she should have been happier about that.


	4. Love Song to a Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where Walon Vau appears, likely ooc and under cover as Vato de Bedan.
> 
> I needed this story becasue of the song in the end notes. Also, Dahlia deserves it.

There they were, neat and tidy as intel had said. Dahlia like her intel accurate. It made lying in wait for a day or two worth it. She slowly leant into the scope, zooming in on the three figures. Two old men, one young companion, and a strill. All accounted for. They were not unarmed, but definitely un-armoured. They did look like gangster bosses. They probably were.

Her finger tightened around the trigger. The shorter one kept falling in behind, his head hidden behind the taller man. It was annoying but needs be, she could shoot them both before anybody way the wiser. Taking out the third man and the animal might be harder, but she would have a little time before they had located her position. And that didn't mean they found her. Unlike them. Dahlia was fully armoured up.

She dropped Shorty from the scope, taking in the hindrance instead. Blasters with pearl inlay were holstered at his side, the white gleaming in the sun. Glitterstim, dealers? More likely cartel bosses. The scope wandered higher and she counted along when it rose over Shorty's head to the temple of-

He turned to face her direction just then, as if he had felt the crosshairs upon him. Dahlia's finger began to hurt, tense over the trigger. Her hands had healed badly, but they had healed in the end. The bes'bev had helped. She was horrible handling knives in close combat, but sniper rifles were not a problem.

The finger stayed.

He breath stayed as well.

Golden eyes seemed to look straight at her. And as the past washed over her, the group moved on. The crosshairs hung in the air, useless. Dahlia closed her eyes. A job was a job. The past was over and done with, years upon years. He didn't even -

Her head sank down, forehead resting against the warm duracrete. She would not be shooting anybody for some time now. The scent of water on hot stone did nothing to soften the memory.

 

* * *

 

She had been on the up. Not yet among the top shots of the Mando'ade but definitely going there. Her name meant quality work. She had been between jobs, drinking in one of those bars. The tea spicy enough to burn her gum off and sticky sweet to glue her teeth together. It had been that kind of job.

He hadn't given a true name, but she had know that by the way he waltzed into the place, looked around and walked up to her offering her another job. Count of Bedan. Not likely but he held himself like nobility. The helmet under his arm might just have been on of those fancy hats.

“What kind of job?” She had looked him up and down. She always did. Dahlia liked to know what she was getting into. There wasn't much to see through the black-on-black armour, but armour was a snitch on its own.

“Access to a private party. ” His voice had been strictly business.

Dahlia cracked a tiny smile as she leant back. “No shooting involved?”

“None.” He had looked down at her. “Wearing fancy clothes and dancing if you are up to that. It is a very dignified party.”

She had looked at him then. Really looked at him. Tall, wiry despite the extra layer of armour. Definitely dangerous. Had he seen her familiarity with that kind of event? Had he done research and targeted her specifically? Dahlia was intrigued enough to let the no-shooting-involved slide. “What's in it for me?”

“Easy money.”

There was always that. Kit and guns were expensive. Nobody had to know how well off she actually was. Needing money was a great cover-up for taking any job you wanted. “How easy?”

His smile had transformed him in the blink of an eye. Instead of the business man bartering a contract, he was suddenly the charming heir to a rich family, oozing wealth and privilege. When he straightened again, it was as if the image had been an illusion. “Do you always expect to get more out of a deal than money?”

“I do expect a job to work favourably for my reputation. If I do not get to shoot somebody's eye out from a mile away, what good is that to me?” Dahlia smiled. “But I am indeed between jobs.”

He slipped into the seat beside her. “And I only need entrance to one party.”

“At which appearing on your own would be highly suspicious?” She raised a brow.

“You will carry my weapon through the checks.” His normal smile was a lot less pleasing.

“What do I call you?” Dahlia wanted to know. “If I am to 'my lord' you the whole time, it will cost extra.”

“You can call 'my lord', if you wish to lose a few limbs.” His tone was icy. Bad history with nobility confirmed.

“In which case I won't.” Her limbs had suffered enough for a few life times. She intended to keep them as safe as possible for the remainder of this. “How long do I have to get dressed?”

“Call me Vato.” He raised his gauntlet, transmitting information to her system. “Take of in two hours, appointments made for attire and hair. You only have to attend. Costs covered by expenses.”

Dahlia studied the information. Count Vato Bedan was travelling in a stylish, very flashy and useless ship. She wondered if it was heavily modded or a throw-away. She wondered what the real job was. She knew she would not ask any of those questions. She was a professional.

She studied the plan. There was when and how to distract the crowd and, of course, the last alibi. She appreciated the 'pretend' in the brief even though she didn't believe it for a second.“One change,” she said, “gloves.”

He leant over, looking at the indicated items. “Not a problem.” No questions asked. Another professional.

“Got it.” She turned off her gauntlet display. “I will be there.”

He hadn't stayed around.

 

* * *

 

Dahlia raised her head. He had little to do with where she was professionally today; one of the best snipers of the Mando'ade. Still her shot was blocked by her own past. She snorted. It was what it was. The small group had made its way to the registration office. She observed it through her scope for a while. Not that it mattered.

She would not shoot him. It was shocking to see how much older he was. How much older she must be as well. Dahlia packed up her rifle. He had been inexplicable that night. Now it was her turn.

It had been a night to remember. She could still feel the jewellery against her skin, heavy with parts of a small blaster; the polished floor below and the mirrored ceiling above trying to outshine each other; the low murmur of educated voices, elegant dresses and tailored suits and dress uniforms.

Her dress had been a spectacle in burgundy and gold, the long gloves adding an extra layer of drama. Fine gold stitches ran down her forearms, following complicated patterns over her fingers and meeting in pools of gold on her fingertips. It was a shame to was all that on her hands.

She had gotten the weapon through the checks easily. Vato's formal suit had had more pockets but as expected those were all thoroughly searched. Dahlia had brought her very toys own on top of that, just in case. She had smiled and remembered the many balls and receptions that held been given in her honour. He had smiled and known nothing of her.

In return, she didn't know anything about him. Count Vato de Bedan it was. And she Countess Angeline. Her smile was chiselled in place as if the practised ease had never been interrupted. A small orchestra was situated in a corner of the ballroom proper. She did not shiver when the flutes set in.

Whatever Vato had been before becoming a Mandalorian, excellent dancer had been part of it. They had smiled at each other, fixed points in a turning world. And when she tried real hard, Dahlia could forget the years. The incident and its aftermath. She was still Palan'nadari. Her fingers could still dance more agile than her feet. It was exhilarating.

It was a perfect evening. Two people that did not exist any longer spending their time in the shallow pleasures of the upper class, whirling the night away. His smile was perfect, fitting the perfect gentleman he was. Dahlia could see the darkness lingering behind his golden eyes though, ready to strike.

It did not matter. She was safe, of no interest to the violent elements of the galaxy, just an artist. Another fragile piece that did not know about the exoskeleton waiting to devour her. But that was wrong. The armour upheld her. In lieu of that, Vato's arm made do when she stopped suddenly, stumbled to the side leaning heavily on him.

“I will get you water, dear.” He vanished and Dahlia sat under the heavy eyes of envious ladies. Vato was a looker in that suit and no mistaking.

She counted slowly, adjusted her breath and fainted scandalously. Not really, but nobody had to know. There was a general fuss and people shouting for a medic and trying to make her comfortable on the floor. Dahlia kept counting. Vato had been very specific in his instructions.

The bejewelled choker was taken from her neck and the cold hiss of a hypo brought her to again. She blinked, looked at the closest person and screamed. She could scream. She had had a lot of reason to practice. And while she clawed at everybody coming close, her counting neared its end.

Before she reached it, Vato was back, racing towards her, water in hand and worried expression his face. It was something a frantic lady would want to see coming to her rescue. Dahlia turned towards him, calming just a little. And with one misplaced foot, Vato stumbled, caught himself but not the water and doused her.

They ignored it in favour or a reunion and she buried her face at his shoulder. Shaking in his firm grip was easy. Since she could impossibly attend any event in a drenched dress it was only right they left and shortly after, Dahlia was sitting in their room, dangling her legs from the twin bed.

“It's not really ruined, is it?” She glanced at the dress lying crumpled on the floor, ready for the next scene to play out. It was worth about as much as her kit. It was absolutely ridiculous.

“Not that I know off.” Vato had shed his jacket and was pulling at his tie. He glanced at the chrono. “They should have found the body by now. Are you ready?”

Dahlia nodded, stood, and shrugged off the undergarment. It pooled at her feet almost like water. It was a shame she had to return it. Not the gown itself, that was a cumbersome piece of obstruction, but the shift? Useless, yes but pretty and so very soft on her skin.

Skin which was the focus of Vato's attention suddenly. Dahlia shrugged and turned slowly. It was not her fault that her skin looked as if a blind Hutt had tried to quilt a paisley pattern on it. Better to get over with it. She pointedly ignored the questioning glance down the gloves.

Vato evened the ground, stripping down as he approached her, exposing his own collections of scars. “I appreciate your willingness to do this.”

Dahlia chuckled. “I've had worse.”

Vato barked out a laugh, throwing his head to the side and exposing a strong profile. But he did not object. Instead he came to a stop on front of her, reaching for her left arm.

She stopped the motion as soon as she noticed it. Still her hands were half-way behind her back. And she was backing off as well, curling her hands into fists to catch her momentum. “No.”

Vato too a step back, watching her closely. “No what?”

“The gloves.” Dahlia pushed the rising memories away. She was doing good now. She could move, use her hands. She looked down at her feet. Bloody stupid hands with those clumsy fingers that never – she took a deep breath. This was not the time to fall apart.

When she looked up, Vato was right in front of her again. “In that case you need to get on the garters and stockings again. Won't look like a credible kink otherwise.”

Dahlia didn't breathe. She searched his eyes, his face, warily, not daring to move anything but her own eyes. After a while she slowly inhaled. The tension pulling her body taut abated a little. She took another breath. She swallowed. After yet another breath, Dahlia nodded slowly. She dared to blink while doing so.

“I will get them.” Her voice surprised her, flowing steadily from her lips with no flutter or stutter.

He didn't mention it again. Professional dishevelling of hair followed and pinching of cheeks to make them look properly flushed. Vato was very ticklish on his sides, just over the last ribs. He had a deep comforting laugh. Dahlia really liked it.

He held up his own weight, propped up on his elbows in a likely position. And despite being so close and naked he was relaxed and it didn't feel as if that was to change any time soon.

Dahlia took his head between her hands, and laid back, laughing. It was a ridiculous make-belief and the men she knew wouldn't have bothered with. But here she was buried under a stranger whose name she didn't even know and felt safe. Free.

He leant down, whispering into her ear. “Will you let me in on the joke?”

She captured his lobe between her teeth. “No.” It was exhilarating.

It was – interrupted by a loud knock on their door. She looked up into golden eyes that were suddenly very serious. She shrugged and pulled the sheets over their heads. It was crazy going through the motions without actual intercourse.

“You need to hold your breath or pinch your cheeks again,” he breathed into her ear over another, louder knock on the door.

Dahlia nodded and stopped breathing. It was the better idea because it also prevented her from laughing.

With a sudden, the door burst open. Vato rolled off her, taking the sheet with him. Dahlia gasped for air, panting and grabbing for the sheet to cover up again. Three guards stood with raised weapons in their room looking embarrassed.

“What is the meaning of this?” For a man naked in bed, Vato was pulling of privileged annoyance perfectly.

“We are investigating a murder case,” the leading guard said.

“Murder?” Dahlia squeaked, seeking safety at Vato's side. He put an arm around her automatically.

“Where have you been-” the guard faltered.

“If it is indeed any of your business,” Vato oozed taking righteous offence, “my wife felt unwell during the ball and fainted.” He gave her a reassuring little squeeze. “I accidentally tripped and poured water on her dress.”

“It was just water,” Dahlia interjected with a stage whisper.

“So we returned to our room to change but when I saw her with the dress off.” Vato turned and looked at her as if she was the most amazing thing in the galaxy.

Dahlia smiled back at him, indulging for the moment in the reality of their cover.

The guard made a disgusted noise and looked along the carefully arranged trail of clothing leading from the bathroom to the bed.

“Is the murderer still free?” Dahlia peered up at him from behind the sheet.

“The investigation is ongoing-”

“And we cannot close the door.” She was proud of the trembling tears welling up her eyes as she buried her face against Vato. “I am scared.”

“We will have your lock repaired momentarily.” The guard looked around, trying to find something else to ask and hide is unease. He asked Vato some more questions while Dahlia hid between his shoulder and the sheet, quivering appropriately and making scared noises.

As promised a repairman came and exchanged the lock in record time. He left even before the guards. Vato cut the guards short pointing out her distressed state. When the leader was reluctant to take the hint, he rose like a vengeful spirit, escorting the three men to the He looked more threatening stark naked than any of them in full gear.

After locking the door, he returned, shedding the high bred attitude on the way. “Now that went well.” He pulled the sheet over him again. “You could have looked a little more invested in our activities, though.”

“Armed men storming your room will deflate any tension fast,” Dahlia objected.

“Physical exertion and arousal have lingering visible effects,” Vato said.

“They will just think you are not very good at this,” she laughed.

“Oh, I can show you how good I am at this.” He pulled her closer. Very slowly and escapably.

Dahlia shook her head slightly, remembering the intensity of his gaze on her scars. She had had worse. What would it matter? Just another performance. Something to keep her reputation special and the jobs coming. “If you want to.”

“No.” With a sudden Vato was back at arm's length, studying her. “If _you_ want.”

She tilted her head slowly, trying to make sense of him. Dahlia had to admit that she failed. There he was, lying right beside her, both of them stark naked and he was just looking. Looking at her face no less and waiting for her to make a decision. It was not a decision she had been asked to make before.

Giving them leave to act on their desires had always been enough for her partners. And she had made sure they left satisfied and feeling happy about having a done a good job on her, too. It was routine. It worked. Who cared what she wanted?

Her breath became heavy in her lungs, difficult to move in any direction and her eyes were burning. “I,” she stopped short, blinked and caught her voice, “I don't know?”

“You don't know.” He searched her face intently.

She shook her head a little. It was how she worked. She had been dealt a shitty hand and she had coped. Not that she had ever stopped to think why she wanted to stay alive. It was what people did, expected. So she did how ever necessary. It worked. What else mattered?

“It's okay.” Vato took a deep breath, patting her shoulder reassuringly. “Forget it.”

“No.” She would not let this go unanswered. What did she want? What did it matter? Who cared? She was coping. Was that all there was? Yes it worked. But working didn't make something right. And she would not touch this on her own. Ever. Because of that. It did work.

Dahlia covered his hand with her own, keeping it in place. “I do not know. But,” she looked down at their hands. “This. I like this. It feels,” she closed her eyes, shutting out everything but the feeling of his palm on her skin, “nice. It feels nice.”

“Nice?” Vato raised a brow. “I think we can do better than that.”

Dahlia touched his smile. She liked that, too, and the laughter and the way his eyes seemed to turn the lines on her skin into liquid golden seams, precious and prized. That he didn't mention the gloves. Everybody had always mentioned them, had them removed one way or another. Something pooled behind her eyes and Dahlia closed them to hem it in.

“Just tell me how this feels.” His hands began to move down her arm slowly.

She leant back with her eyes still closed just feeling its progress. It felt good. Dahlia told him so. He repeated the movement. It still felt good. There were many things that felt good when you stopped to think about them. Though it was difficult not to just relapse into performance mode. Performance was easy. She had it down mostly to automatic.

Actually feeling things and considering the amount of pleasure they brought was hard. It went against everything she had learnt. Dahlia wondered, shortly because breath on skin was more distracting than it sounded, but she had to wonder if it was another of her mistakes, the true lesson lost in her twisted mind.

The question swept up every now again. If it was a mercy not to teach her these overpowering feelings, protect her from the violent reactions of her own body screaming death and murder. Screamed and abated because Vato made sure she stayed sane, safe and unafraid. There was no reason to cry.

Dahlia understood that in the end when everything else was wiped from her mind. It seemed ridiculous that he even had to ask if she wanted this. She told him, chuckling between the words, inhaling the scent of their sweat. She was tired, wired; her thoughts were crashing around, asking what she actually wanted everywhere.

More of this. More of everything. A life in which she was routinely asked what she wanted. A life in which she asked herself routinely if this was what she wanted. A life full of things she actually wanted. Her hands wandered along his face and Dahlia realised she had not listened to his explanation.

“But is is okay to ask,” she said softly. “Okay to ask for more.”

“Always.” His face was so close.

Dahlia laughed. She wanted to run her mouth all over his features. It was strange because it was something she wanted to do and not something that would bring the desired results. “Then consider yourself asked.” She could feel her breath bouncing back from his face and she laughed again, until her mouth was closed by a stranger's kiss.

Vato had not tried to take off her gloves or make her take them off. His lips had simply marked the line where they circled her arm just above the elbow.

Dahlia had known that Vato was not his real name and the night proved it over again. But that was his gloves. The necessary distance. She upheld it as easily as he respected hers.

It was her own decision, some time in the middle of the night, waking up with the surprise realisation she was not alone. Her sudden movement had woken Vato, she could tell from his breath. Dahlia smiled against the skin of his back, lined and warm. She had peeled of her gloves then, exposing the monstrosity under them.

Vato had not flinched when her hand slipped over his skin, had not recoiled. Vato just waited until she had settled, her face pressed into his shoulder in silent apology. But she wanted to feel so badly. Put her broken fingers on his body that was undeserving of such sullying. And she had waited with her eyes clamped shut. Waited for a rejection that didn't come. He had just put his hand over hers, slowly, carefully, and gone back to sleep.

There had been more questions the in the morning. They had tried to get through an abundant breakfast, her gloves back in place before she touched any of her food. Dahlia was still thoughtful, looking at all the dishes and thinking. What did she actually want? What did she like? It turned out that at least caf was a no-brainer in that regard.

“Another cup and you can fly back home flapping your arm,” Vato said.

Dahlia grinned. “I like this.” She held up her cup. “It makes me feel fast and heady. And you have to protect me.”

He raised a brow. But she was right as yet. He would probably look nondescript and forgettable in casual clothes. Nothing about him but his golden eyes and the attitude. And they were following their script as yet, showing the façade of a happily wed couple.

 

* * *

 

She had stepped back onto Mandalore with easily earned credits as promised. She had not looked back as she had walked towards her next job. Her mind had been full. She was her own person even when she had company. There was no reason to be a moulded mirror. She did not have to acquiesce just because it was what she had always done.

She had started on a long path that day. Of course there were still things like her hands. Dahlia changed into a light dress, several weapons easily concealed in it pleats. She put on matching wrist-length gloves because some things just could not be helped.

A few times, she had thought of Vato. When she had managed another step on her path or sat in desolate dejection. Dahlia wondered why he had done it, what had driven him? To take a stand in the middle of the night and say: just because I matter it doesn't mean you do not.

Did he even know what he had done? She doubted it. It did not matter. She was her own person. She did not need him for that. The sun war warm on her sink. Skin showing the criss-crossing marks of her life. Dahlia was unapologetic. She had not caused this. It was not her fault and no longer her burden.

Dahlia made her way to the pontoons. It was the decision she had made, made on the grounds of the realisation all those years back. That she was her own and her life was her own and that every di'kutla shabuir who disagreed could go screw himself if he got out of their argument alive.

She had her own ship, a kit that actually meant something to her and snipers that brought tears to her eyes and made those of her enemies water. Shortly. And by now she was on of the best in her field. Which was very good because she was not getting more agile over the years.

Dahlia examined the dark green submersible. It looked sturdy enough to be space-going as well. An interesting choice. She stood watching the water, waiting. Getting licence to moor could only take so long. She didn't turn around when steps approached, stopping just behind her.

“Can I help you, ma'am?” Shorty tried to look polite though he was certainly annoyed at somebody taking interest in his ship.

Dahlia smiled. “No. But you should be more careful. I was sent to kill you.”

The tension jumped as everybody except her reached for their weapon of choice.

“And you're awfully easy to kill.” She rested her elbows on the rail. “Especially for a sniper.”

“But I sill live.” His hand was still on one of his blasters as he sized her up.

Dahlia glanced at Vato. He stood almost relaxed, radiating calm violence. “It's your lucky day,” she told Shorty.

“Who hired you,” he asked.

“Mandalorians, but I don't think they are the source. Didn't look like they had the credits to fund me like that.” Dahlia straightened. “Whatever you are after, they are paid to protect it. And either you or I will have a very interesting debriefing with them on this incident.”

She pulled up her short gloves and got ready to leave. “And really, do something about your safety. I can easily slot two with neat headshots and take out at least two more approaching my position.”

Vato's hand stopped her as she passed. “What will you do now?”

Dahlia looked at his face, the wary golden eyes and shrugged. “I don't now.” Her eyes unfocussed somewhere behind his left shoulder. “I was considering taking care of some private business. Something I should have done long ago.

“That doesn't mean I'm not up for hire if you have a job,” she told Shorty over her shoulder.

She left them standing to do whatever they saw fit. It was not her problem. She had her won life, a good life. And quite possibly 20 years were a long time to pick up any trail but she was Mandalorian. Finding people, hunting things, all part of the business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Joan Baez - Love Song to a Stranger](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yg9Q9co8W2g)
> 
> Actually the inspiration came from mishearing trotzdem lines into:  
> 1\. You're mainly a mystery with violence filling in space.  
> 2\. And I guess I thanked you when you caused me to heal.


End file.
